


In Which There is a Forbidden Book and a Conversation

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:19:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fauchelevent chats with Cosette and Valjean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which There is a Forbidden Book and a Conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anacrea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anacrea/gifts).



“Uncle,” said little Cosette, and then stopped short in the pathway, her eyes wide and serious. 

Fauchelevent smiled. “Yes, little one?” Cosette was often sad when she left her doting father. Still, usually she was soon cheered by the thought of returning to her playfellows. 

She bit her lip. “I did something I wasn’t supposed to.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t so bad,” Fauchelevent said. 

“I didn’t want to,” Cosette said, her eyes filling with tears, “but I thought if I didn’t, Françoise would get in trouble.” She drew out a small book from behind her back. 

Fauchelevent took the book and leafed through it. It was a silly thing, a novel, a story of a beautiful girl kept near-imprisoned by her fiendish uncle, and rescued by a dashing young aristocrat who had fallen in love with her when he saw her at her window. Fauchelevent kept flipping the pages. The hero was a master swordsman and an acrobatic climber, scaling walls and dueling bandits, and—Fauchelevent looked at the end—finally defeating the uncle himself in a titanic battle, only to spare the old man’s life, being too honorable and merciful to slay him—

“Uncle?” Cosette tugged at his hand.

“Hmm? Oh!” Fauchelevent shut the book, feeling foolish. “Yes, you’re not meant to be reading this.”

“I didn’t,” said Cosette. “I didn’t even peek _once._ Françoise gave me the book because she thought Mother Saint-Gertrude would see it, and I said I’d help her hide it. Françoise borrowed the book from Jeanne-Félicité Bouchard.” Cosette pronounced this last name almost reverently. 

Mlle Bouchard, Fauchelevent remembered, was the intrepid young lady who had gotten three days off from the visiting archbishop. She was something of a heroine to her classmates, especially the younger ones. “Does young Mlle Bouchard want the book returned to her when Françoise is finished with it?”

“I think so.” Cosette bit her lip again, clearly trying not to cry.

“Don’t worry, little one. Your father and I will keep hold of the book, so you won’t be found with it. You can get word to Mlle Bouchard that she may find her book with me, at her leisure—I trust she will have no trouble getting away for a few minutes. “ The young girls were not supposed to talk to Fauchelevent, because the nuns felt even an old duffer like him posed a threat to their virtuous contemplation of the good God. But Mlle Bouchard was a girl of resource, capable of sneaking a book about love into the convent and then passing it around to her schoolmates. That one would have no difficulty finding her way to Fauchelevent to retrieve her book!

Cosette, much relieved, happily trotted alongside Fauchelevent until he left her to continue back to her dormitory alone. He turned back to his little house, clutching the book.

M. Madeleine, who had been tending the melons while Fauchelevent walked Cosette back part of the way, looked at the book, but said nothing. It wasn’t his way to comment.

But it was Fauchelevent’s way to talk. “It’s from the little one,” he said, coming to stand by the melons. “Poor sweet thing. One of the other girls had it and needed a place to hide it, and Cosette was trying to help. Don’t be angry with her.”

“Of course not,” M. Madeleine (Fauchelevent took care never to address him by that name, but always thought of him as such) said gravely. Fauchelevent knew he would respond like this. That was M. Madeleine, always merciful. Especially to those who merely tried to help others, and ran afoul of the rules by doing so. And he was never angry with Cosette.

“It’s a love story,” said Fauchelevent, gesturing at M. Madeleine with the book. He gave an embarrassed laugh. “You know the kind, full of thrills and daring escapes and grand passions.”

M. Madeleine nodded, but said nothing.

“Young girls must have these dreams of gallant heroes and true love. It’s only natural. Love is a great thing, after all—a very great thing.”

Again M. Madeleine said nothing. But he looked melancholy, as if the thought of true love saddened him. Fauchelevent nodded, confirming his old suspicions to himself. If such a man as good and as kind—and, at one point, as rich and prominent—as M. Madeleine had no living wife with him, he must have had a great love in his past. Something tragic, no doubt. Something that ended in tears. Perhaps the girl M. Madeleine had loved did not manage to escape her guardian, or perhaps she did, and little Cosette was her child, or her grandchild, from whom he had been cruelly separated for years, only to find her just when he went bankrupt or had political troubles or had to flee the police…

Fauchelevent didn’t know. M. Madeleine wished for secrecy, very well: Fauchelevent would give him that gift freely, along with repaying the debt of his life.

Still, Fauchelevent couldn’t resist a gentle question. “Were you ever in love?” He asked it idly, scratching at his cheek and looking off into the distance, as if he were just talking to pass the time.

M. Madeleine’s mouth twitched, ever so slightly, into a shadow of a smile. “My daughter is my only love now.” He still sounded melancholy, but there was a trace of joy there. Cosette always made him happy, and it was lovely to see, but his answer was no answer at all. Of course a father loved his daughter, but that was not at all what Fauchelevent had asked about. _Who is Cosette’s mother?_ Fauchelevent might have asked, but he held his tongue. M. Madeleine wanted secrecy, and he would have it.

Instead of pressing M. Madeleine to answer, Fauchelevent talked on. Such were their conversations, often: Fauchelevent chatting, and M. Madeleine saying a word or giving a nod here and there, too solemn to speak very much. “These blessed nuns don’t want to encourage thoughts of love, but they’re waging war against nature. Of course one can understand why they do it. They want to guide and instruct these young girls in virtue, and bring some of them into the convent. It’s not because they don’t understand love, or don’t feel it. No, no, in fact, the very opposite is true! These ladies, they have so much love in their hearts, it cannot be borne by an ordinary man, it must be given to our Lord Jesus Christ. The only one who can accept such devotion is Christ. It’s too great for any other. It would be idolatry if given to any other. No mortal sinner can be worthy of it, or bear its weight.”

Fauchelevent glanced at M. Madeleine, whose face had gone cloudy again. “One day little Cosette will be one of them, I suppose,” he said. It was just as well. The child was likely to be ugly and, without money, may not have made a desirable match. And she seemed happy in this place of innocence and peace.

M. Madeleine’s look of trouble lifted. “Yes,” he said. 

“In the meantime, she’s a little girl, and let her not be punished for helping her friend hide a silly novel. Cosette herself didn’t read it,” Fauchelevent added, just so M. Madeleine had even more reason to know his daughter was blameless.

M. Madeleine looked pleased at this. He rose from his knees to stand by the melons. “I will make tea,” he said. Fauchelevent, always ready for tea, followed him inside.


End file.
